Irrevocably Yours
by sorchanator
Summary: Kate must always appear as 'the maid', for her own safety. Irene knows that anyone special to her will be used against her.


Miss Adler becomes Irene only when with Kate. The clients and enemies only know Kate as a maid, but it's a face Kate must wear for her own safety. Irene knows that anyone special to her will be used against her, so she cannot reveal the truth of her and Kate's relationship. Kate is the one person Irene never has to dominate, because Kate is irrevocably devoted to her no matter what.

* * *

At the close of a particularly demanding session (Irene idly wonders how a submissive can take so much out of her), Kate smiles the client (a famous actor, an untainted beloved of teenage girls everywhere) out of the front door, and goes to help Irene out of her constricting gear. They do not speak as Kate unlaces the corset, for they both despise chatter and small talk, and the silence is peaceful and companionable. When Irene's narrow back and small breasts are freed from the boning of the corset, she breathes out heavily, and her face relaxes slightly. Next the heels come off, and Kate massages the aching insteps, then the pins are slid out of her hair and the heavy silver-backed hairbrush is retrieved from the dressing table. Irene sits at the stool and Kate kneels behind her, both of their knife-point shoes tossed to the side. Kate strokes the brush through what few tangles there are, smoothing her lover and employer's hair into a silky, chocolaty curtain. Once the last traces of Miss Adler's makeup are removed from Irene's face, Kate kisses her creamy clavicle and their eyes stay locked in the mirror, secret smiles seducing, the scene reminiscent of a pre-Raphaelite.

After a kitchen supper, they lie in the claw-footed bathtub together, at opposite ends. Kate smokes a Sobranie and exhales an elegant plume of smoke into the steam while Irene reads Sappho in her crisp tones. 'Rather apt, don't you think?' Kate quips. Irene leans forward and takes the cigarette from Kate in exchange for the slim book.

'The gleaming stars all about the shining moon hide their bright faces, when full-orbed and splendid in the sky she floats, flooding the shadowed earth with clear silver light…' Kate's voice is caressing and husky, and Irene finds it more pleasing than her own clear voice. Kate, she decides, is a Greek goddess. And Irene, Kate has always thought, is a French seducer.

'All the best things are French,' she remarks later, while they lie supine in their most private room, _Belle de Jour _flickering on the screen. 'French toast. French manicures. French film, certainly.'

Irene strokes Kate's hair, as Kate is nestled against Irene's chest. 'French literature.'

'You're biased! Russian literature, in my opinion…'

'It all boils down to what you study at university, doesn't it?'

'Excuse me, I did neurobiology.'

'Clever girl. What else?' Irene knows this is their foreplay, so she leaves the most obvious for now. 'French girls.'

'You have a British girl in bed with you right here who's trying not to get offended.'

'Oh, darling. You're not a girl, you're an exotic creature, you're a goddess. You're a woman. You transcend nationality and gender. But I have to say, I love a dirty Brit on the side.'

Kate props herself up on one elbow, her copper hair rumpled and falling across her face. Irene can't help herself from stroking it back. 'Is that what I am? Your bit on the side? You don't even have a main!'

'Just a play on words, Kate darling. Darling Kate. You know you're special. Come back here. We have a few more Frenches to get through. Now, what's the next on our list?'

'French kissing,' Kate can't help smiling, and they taste each other's soft lips and strawberry tongues. 'That one's my favourite French.'

'I saved my best 'til last.' Irene trails the hand resting on Kate's smooth shoulder down her waist to her hip. She whispers, 'French knickers,' and snaps the waistband. A feline grin stretches Kate's mouth and she rolls onto her back, lifting her legs to wriggle out of them. 'Cream silk and lace with a matching camisole. You're always thinking of me, Kate. Now get yer top off, Frenchie.'

Kate's body is milk and honey, and Irene smiles at the constant treat laid out for her. 'Shall we have a rummage through the toy box, Kate?' she asks, kneeling at Kate's side and kissing her hipbone softly.

'Maybe later. I just want you now,' Kate says evenly, and Irene leans up to kiss her again, massaging in between her legs with the palm of her hand. She lets a finger loose to play with Kate's clit and Kate laughs, breaking away from the kiss. It's Kate's signature sex move, except it's not a move- Kate just enjoys it so much, it's like a more dynamic way of smiling.

'Go on, get the toy box,' Kate says, her face falling slightly when Irene leaves the bed to rummage in the wardrobe.

'Queenie or Harry?' Irene asks, holding up two toys; one, a slim silver bullet vibrator, the other a huge blue dildo.

Kate laughs again, and wiggles her toes. 'If I wanted cock, I'd have said yes to MI5. Queenie, of course.'

Irene and Kate play for a long time, Kate giggling with the intense orgasms Irene gives her, Irene laughing at Kate's giggle. After the tenth, or maybe the fourteenth orgasm, Kate asks Irene if she wants her to make her come. Irene shakes her head and bites the nape of Kate's neck gently yet possessively. 'You do enough for me, Kate, and I'm rather tired tonight. Tomorrow, darling.'

Kate doesn't press it, so Queenie goes back in the toy box (every single one of their toys is nicknamed), and Kate goes downstairs for something. The TV is still on, the DVD now returned to its menu, so Irene turns it off and looks around for something else she can do. She has three new messages. Perhaps she let herself get too relaxed tonight, again. But they aren't from anyone too important. There's one from the Chancellor of the Exchequer, worrying about those graphic texts he'd sent her last year that were just begging to be potentially exposed. Another from Mycroft Holmes's pretty assistant, who changes her name whenever they meet like a game, and another from the pretty-boy actor, who seems to be arrogant enough to think that her services extend beyond the bedroom. All unimportant, all easily sorted out. Irene gets back into bed. Round about now the house's security will start to be activated.

Kate is back, entirely nude and carrying a large plate of toast and marmalade. 'Kate!' Irene scolds. 'You know I'm not supposed to be eating after ten.' Nonetheless she relents, and a last snack before bedtime feels oddly naughty in a way Irene hasn't been in a long time. They perform their night time ablutions side by side, and bid each other goodnight before getting into the hastily straightened bed. Irene can't help herself from giving Kate's pert bottom a smart slap and squeeze before they do so, and they giggle like schoolgirls before settling into each other's arms again.

'Tomorrow we'll have dinner,' Irene murmurs into Kate's fragrant hair. Kate hums in agreement sleepily. The moonlight illuminates their soft tangle of limbs and skin and hair and lips, and they dream quietly.

* * *

When they rise in the blue dawn and dress for their respective personas, Irene is 'Miss Adler' again and Kate is 'the maid'. That's all they can ever be, until night welcomes them back kindly. Perhaps one day they need never pretend.


End file.
